Aftermath
by Jean Hicks
Summary: "His fingers dig into the fine suit, wool – it had been cold out today, is it still cold? He won't let go. He promised." A somewhat continuation of "Brother, Mine", emerging from my desire to give Sherlock some sort of closure. Character death. Pairings: Johnlock/Mystrade, nothing explicit. Angsty. You've been warned. Please read, review, and enjoy!


**AN: **A follow-up, of sorts, to my story, "Brother, Mine" where Mycroft suffers a tragic death. Sherlock is with him until the end. This story picks up immediately after that. I didn't want to post a second chapter, because I like that "Brother, Mine" can stand alone, but I wanted to bring Sherlock a little bit of closure (if it was even possible). I've had this written for a while and was hesitant to post it. Pairings: Johnlock (absolutely nothing graphic) and Mystrade (again, nothing graphic). A bit of violence, a bit of blood, and a Sherlock sized tantrum, as well as a very caring and patient John. Read, review, and enjoy!

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The first sound he registers clearly again is John's gasp. He realizes in some far corner of his mind that his face is covered in blood where he wiped his hand to dry his tears and that, actually, his shirt must be pretty stained as well. There's so much blood. It's drying sticky and thick in the crevices of his fingers and nails but he refuses to let go of his brother's body. His fingers dig into the fine suit, wool – it had been cold out today, is it still cold? He won't let go.

He promised.

John is in front of him, now, and his eyes can barely focus. "I'm not injured." He manages through a throat that's raw from screaming. There are no more tears on his face. He's moved from sobbing into staring at the body below him with a hollow desolation. He can't look away. There are other voices. Footsteps. Bodies. It doesn't matter, Sherlock thinks, none of it matters. His grip on Mycroft tightens again. None of it matters.

All lives end.

He realizes John is talking but it's hard to hear him over the buzzing in his ears. "Sherlock…" John is saying softly. "You've got to let go, all right?" He's got his hands working over Sherlock's bloody ones and he's trying to remove his fingers from Mycroft's body. "Let the paramedics take him now, Sherlock… it's all right… just let him go…" John's voice is steady and his hands are warm. He keeps trying to pry off Sherlock's fingers but Sherlock digs them in deeper.

"No." He snarls finally, baring his teeth like a wild animal and pulling Mycroft to his chest. John backs away, hands held in the air in surrender.

"All right. All right Sherlock. Can we put him on the stretcher… then you can ride with him to the hospital?"

The paramedics are laying a stretcher on the floor and opening a body bag onto it.

"That won't be necessary." Sherlock says softly. The men shoot a questioning glance to John and says something about procedure in a stage whisper. Sherlock whips his head forward and glares at the paramedic. "I said it won't be necessary."

He moves slowly at first, fitting his hands carefully in the right places so he can lift Mycroft up and onto the stretcher. He's light, too light, and the transition is made easily. Mycroft lays prone on the stretcher and Sherlock tucks in his suit jacket just so, adjusting the pocket kerchief so the point of the triangle lies perfectly perpendicular to the pocket line. He makes sure his arms are laid out at his sides.

He doesn't speak, and he doesn't let go of Mycroft's hand.

John follows behind them as they walk to the ambulance. A brief argument ensues over who is going to ride in the back and eventually it's just John and Sherlock and Mycroft in the small compartment and the two paramedics in the cab. Sherlock can't look away from his brother. Dead. Face slack and almost peaceful. He could be sleeping, but he's not. His hand is cold as stone. His skin is grey.

There's so much blood.

The ride to the hospital is far too long.

They bring him in through the back door, not through the emergency room entrance. Mycroft is no longer an emergency. He's going directly to the morgue. All of this Sherlock knows, he notes each step in the process with a clinical detachment. They walk down the pale, poorly lit hallway. There's a set of double doors at the end. John stands beside him. The paramedics says something and John nods.

"Sherlock. We can't go any further right now, okay?"

Silence, fingers in a death grip in the grey wool jacket.

"I know this is very hard," John sounds as if he's talking to a child. "We don't even have to leave, if you don't want to, okay? We can just stay right here… but you need to let go of Mycroft now."

Sherlock looks at him, finally, with wide and frightened eyes. Despite the calm and collected sound of John's voice, his eyes are ringed with red and his brow is furrowed in concern. Sherlock nods and slowly unclenches his fingers from the jacket.

The paramedics move the stretcher without a word. Sherlock looks at his brother's retreating body, rolling through the double doors. His knees falter beneath him. He begins to tumble forward, but John is paying close attention and he catches him and brings him safely to the ground in one fail swoop, positioning Sherlock against his side, back to the hallway wall.

"It's all right…" John is saying, even though he knows it isn't all right. He'll admit that Sherlock and Mycroft sometimes drove him up the wall with all the 'archenemy' nonsense, but he looks at Sherlock's broken face and realizes that they had to have truly loved one another. "It's all right…" is all he can bring himself to say.

Sherlock is shaking against his side. He hasn't said anything since snapping at the paramedics. He can feel Sherlock's body, muscles strung tight like wire about to snap. His heart is racing. He breathes out purposefully through his nose. John knows it's the beginnings of shock creeping into Sherlock's mind, but he isn't quite sure how to help. If this were any other patient, any other human being he would be on firmer ground but he can't know how Sherlock will react.

So John is startled when Sherlock's cold, bony, bloody hand wraps around his. His grip is so tight it makes John wince, but he covers up the noise well enough

"Don't let go." Sherlock whispers after a moment. "Please, don't let go."

They are still sitting, hand in bloody hand, on the floor when another pair of feet approach from the end of the hallway. John releases Sherlock's hand and stands in an instant; Sherlock realizes that John is trying his best to block the view of his bloodied form from the person in the hallway.

"Where is he?" A gruff voice, slightly angry. "They said you two had brought him in." Lestrade, then. Sherlock stands on shaky feet. He raises his eyes to meet the Detective Inspector's brown orbs. He assumes the blood, and the fact that they are standing in the hallway outside the morgue, tells enough of the story. "No." Lestrade says, running a hand over his face and through his hair. "God… No…."

"I'm…" Sherlock's mouth struggles around words. "I'm so sorry." His face is raw and open. Lestrade's eyes cloud in anger and before John can stop him he has launched himself at Sherlock, a swift right hook across the jaw. His bones crunch with the force of it. Sherlock stumbles two steps and then catches himself just as John bellows, "Oi!" The shorter man steps up to defend him.

"It's fine, John." Sherlock says as he nurses a bleeding lip. A mask of impassiveness has moved across his face, turning it cold as stone. "It will be a day before I can make funeral arrangements, but I will let you know when the services are." His tone is calculated, detached.

"Like hell." Both John and Sherlock turn to face Lestrade who is still standing defensively, leaning backward on his heels, glaring.

"Excuse me?" Sherlock says, pivoting on his foot to face the detective inspector fully.

"You won't be planning the services, Sherlock."

"What right do you…" John begins.

"He was my brother!" Sherlock cuts John off, tone sharp. "I know you two were _close_," The way he says the word has all the meaning in the world, "But Britain grants you no…"

"He was my husband!" Lestrade yells above Sherlock's protest. The roar echoes in the hallway. Sherlock's eyes flicker to Lestrade's bare left hand. Then he sees it, a gold chain that's glinting around the DI's neck and dips into his shirt. Just below the fabric he can see the raised circle of a wedding band. His head swims. He blinks, twice, very slowly.

"How long?" He says softly.

"Not even two months." The anger in Lestrade's voice is leaving. "We were going to tell you all at Christmas."

Sherlock's eyes are wide. John is awestruck. "Very well then." He looks at John, then back to Lestrade. The mask is cracking. "I think we should go." The detective turns on his heel and makes towards the end of the hallway. John is standing in his wake, looking at Lestrade.

"Do you… is there anyone I can call for you?" John asks.

Lestrade shakes his head. "I just need to…" He gestures at the door. "I need to see…" His voice breaks and he swipes the back of his hand across his mouth. "Oh God…"

John stands there for a moment, unsure of what to do. He places a hand tentatively on Lestrade's shoulder. "I'll call you later, yea? Make sure you've gotten home all right?" He turns, follows Sherlock who is already out on the street in front of Saint Bart's.

They hail a cab. The driver eyes Sherlock with a bit of hesitance, but John convinces him to take them home and then slips him an extra twenty quid when he pays the tab.

Mrs. Hudson meets them in the hall. "What on Earth have you gotten yourself into this time, Sherlock? Such a mess!" She tuts. He barely acknowledges her in his desperate quest for the flat.

"Mycroft is dead." He says it swiftly then sweeps past her before she can react. The door to the flat bangs open and then shut again. John, running behind from paying the cabbie, stops to tell Mrs. Hudson what he knows of the day's events.

Sherlock is crumbling again. He can feel it. The adrenaline from his interaction with Lestrade, the new knowledge that his brother was married, it's all too much. He feels anger in his heart, competing with the sadness. He tried to close his eyes to center his emotions, but all he sees are Mycroft's eyes, wide and frightened in his last moments. All he smells is metallic blood and acidric fear and sweat. It won't go away. He walks into the kitchen to get a glass of water, convinced it will help.

There's a case file sitting on the table with the Great Seal of the Realm on its cover. Beneath the seal is a note where Mycroft had written in his precise and perfunctory handwriting,

_If you can be so bothered, Brother, mine._

_-MH_

Sherlock runs his fingers over the writing, feeling where the fountain pen etched the paper. It's the finest of linen parchment, of course, because it's from Mycroft and Mycroft is all about the finer things.

Was. Sherlock corrects himself.

Mycroft _was_.

Mycroft _was_ the British Government.

Mycroft _was_ someone's husband.

Mycroft _was_ his brother.

_Was_.

The word seems bitter in his mind.

He turns and throws his fist into the wall. He sweeps his hand across the kitchen table and knocks the glassware into the floor. It cracks with satisfying sharpness. He takes two steps into the living room and overturns his most recent stack of books. Punches another wall. Anything, anything to make the images in his mind go away. He wants to break things, he wants to hurt things because right now he hurts too much.

Mycroft.

Mycroft is dead.

He falls to his knees. He feels himself pulling at his hair. Someone is screaming. He's screaming.

Then John is there in front of him on his knees and shaking his shoulders, "Sherlock." He's pleading. "Sherlock, look at me."

So Sherlock does. He looks up, still covered in blood with a swollen lip and tears running down his face. He hadn't even realized he'd started crying again. "John." He gasps. "He's dead, John. It's my fault…"

This time John doesn't hesitate. He pulls Sherlock sharply against his chest and threads his fingers through his hair. He doesn't say anything, just holds him, he rocks him back and forth. Sherlock is so much taller, but he crumples into John and clings to him like a child. "Mycroft." He repeats. "I'm so sorry…"

"Come on…" John says finally, coaxing Sherlock to his feet. "Why don't we get you cleaned up?" He sounds like he's talking to a child again. Sherlock should feel angry, but he doesn't feel anything.

John leads him to the bathroom. His eyes are distant again, focusing and not focusing all at once. His chest feels empty and his stomach feels nauseous. Sherlock is deciding that the bathroom is a very good place to be going, and by the time they arrive he propels himself toward the toilet and retches endlessly. John takes a flannel and wets it with cool water to lay across Sherlock's neck. When Sherlock appears to be done being sick, John flushes the mess and guides Sherlock to sit on the toilet. He rewets the flannel, this time with warm water, and begins to wipe the crusted blood off of Sherlock's face.

His movements are gentle. He runs his fingers carefully across Sherlock's swollen lip, gingerly around his eyes. He removes Mycroft's blood with a tender affection. They do not speak. He washes Sherlock's hands and cleans beneath his nails. He bandages the split knuckles from Sherlock's tantrum with the wall and doesn't say anything to reprimand him.

He offers to leave while Sherlock showers, but Sherlock only reaches out and holds on to the edge of his jumper. "No," He swallows. John opts instead for brushing Sherlock's sweat matted hair. When the task is finished, he leads Sherlock to their bedroom.

Slowly he unbuttons each of Sherlock's buttons and slips the blood stiff shirt off of his thin shoulders. He folds it carefully and lays it across the clothes rack. He bends down and unties Sherlock's shoes, he removes his fine silk socks. He works his trousers over thin hips and lays them on the rack with the shirt. He removes Sherlock's pants and puts them in the laundry bin.

Sherlock sits, nude and unmoving, on the side of the bed. He looks at John. He feels lost. The clock chimes. London is dark outside of the window.

"Twenty four hours ago, Mycroft was alive." He says, voice rough.

"Yes." John folds the duvet down and coaxes Sherlock back onto the cool sheets.

"He's dead." A pause. "I tried to save him, John." John doesn't answer, he can't answer over the rock that has formed in his throat. He throws the sheet over Sherlock's lean body and runs a hand tenderly over his head.

"I need to go call Greg." He says finally. "I promised that I would."

Sherlock is looking past him again, out of the window and into the night. He's turned on his side with one of his hands below his head. He's crying, just a small stream of tears that are flowing from his eyes. John sighs and walks out of the room.

"Greg is staying at Molly's. So… there's that." John says as he walks back in the room. He isn't afraid of waking Sherlock because he knows Sherlock will not be asleep. Sherlock is still staring out of the window, rivulets flowing from his eyes and dampening the pillow.

John undresses himself and then raises the duvet. He hesitates. "Would you like to be alone tonight, Sherlock? I'd understand… and I'd be happy to sleep upstairs." Sherlock shoots him a look through tear filled eyes which makes John laugh in spite of everything. "All right. All right. Budge over." He flips off the lights.

Sherlock scoots over and then turns so that he and John are facing one another. It's silent except for Sherlock's occasional sniff. John reaches out with a calloused hand and brushes the tears from his face.

"When I close my eyes, I see his face."

"I know."

Silence.

"I'm afraid to sleep, because I don't want to dream about him."

"You need to sleep."

"If I dream…"

"I will be right here when you wake up. Every time."

Silence.

"He would sing to me."

John feels his heart sink. Tears in his own eyes now. He wonders if Sherlock can see them.

"When I was younger and I was scared he'd sing to me…"

The world wasn't fair, John decides. He doesn't know any lullabies.

"He kept me out of trouble. Which isn't an easy task. He kept me alive all those years. Now who's going to do it?" His voice breaks again on the last sentence and he cries.

John pulls Sherlock against him, tucking their bodies together and burying his nose in Sherlock's neck. "I will." He says, "I will, Sherlock Holmes. Until the end of my days. Sleep now… please." He's crying in earnest too. The world just isn't fair.

Sherlock wraps his arms around John's torso. "In the morning…."

"We'll figure it out. One step at a time." John draws in a breath through his mouth, smells Sherlock and an undertone of blood and sweat.

"Together?" Sherlock hesitates.

"Together."


End file.
